The King would leer
and see Caesar sneer
at the folly of loving fools.

Oh, how I know I long to
be made for love.
But in loving you
I am made an ***.
For loss of senses
becomes euphoria
and fairy madness
falls on my blind spot
in a tempest
even Ariel could not abate.
Winds would shred my soul
and see timber set afire
by the lightning of desire.
Using its light to play Othello
flipping white for black.

Oh, Juliet my dear
I fear my love for you
is just an act of suicide.
Still, I would die
happily, as all other lovers do.
For there is much ado
about nothing while
melted men of shadows
and scripted puppets
lose themselves
not in facts
but the opposite of that.
Love makes a poet of me
and a fool of us all.

I got eye strain and back pain
from sitting in the chair all day,
working my life away,
clicking on keyboards and mouses,
while staring at computer screens,
and ignoring other things;

I am detached from the fact that
there is more than just me,
because everyone I see,
every single human being
has turned into pixelated images
on the monitor I’ve monitored
all day.

The war is coming rising rivers of dark red blood will be spilt, stop
Innocent lives spent in the pursuit of greed, glory, and hate, stop
Machine gun turret, grenades, poison gas, planes, submarines, stop
Bullet, blades, blood, enemy-entrenched, death in the mud, stop
Children becoming men before their time dying on your dime, stop
Next war, with oh so many new ways to terminate life, stop
New technology, modern mass media telling us how to feel, stop
Building bombs to **** one another leaving behind crying mothers, stop
Bigger bomb tap that atom go out and get those yellow *******, stop
Pandora’s box opened up with bitter metal bearing baring hate, stop
Two cities decimated, burning the earth, Heaven cries black tar tears, stop
The cycle continues from war to war the tragedy never seems to end, stop
Human horror, I am begging for the love of all humanity please, stop

When the aggression keeps taking possession of your soul.
When you anger and entitlements makes you violent.
When you are licensed by the state which supports your hate.
When your crime happens time and time again.
When you blacken and harden your heart against a group.
When you ignore the truth and our youth who cry.
When the sidewalk runs liquid red then dark dry.
How can you expect me not to see the hatred.
How can you expect me not to see the corruptions.
When I wipe back the tears and find my own outrage
And a part of me almost gives into hate.
Seeing bullet hole tear through my brothers cloth’s
Because every man is my brother
And every mother who mourns the loss
Of her child shot by the cops is my sister
When will this madness ever stop.

When strangers sit together
they still exist alone.

When they wander in
the wet weather
without their friends
there is silence,

the same silence
that stares sullenly
at a tablet, or phone screen
without reacting
to any human being
in the general area.

There are always a few
who long to
break through
the silence
and speak with
others who have
no business
other then
sitting and waiting.

Spirits waning
from some
strange rejection,
not outright
but at daylight
when strangers
look right
at each other
then turn away
nervously
refusing
to speak.

Oh, I bare my tragic soul
And grow as an artist
One pinky up my nose
See my toes
Curl up
See my *** clench so tight
As I sigh and moan
All **** night
Cause I am an artist
Sweet sad me
What a genius
More because
My town can’t see
The brilliance
Of poor old torture me
Boo hoo hoo
The tired cliché
Like that tired phrase
All Van Gogh
One ear off
And one left to go
I think you all should know
I am only so, so,
So, so
So you know
All angsty stuff
All suicide rage
All depressive love
And lonely days
Poor, poor, poor me
My life is like a tragedy
Insert tears
Insert sob story
Insert boring prologue
About how nobody knows me
Insert a laugh
No x that **** out
Cause I am a very, very serious artist
But this poem is only a mockery
Of poor, sad, pathetic little old me

We are only human
Built up from the muck
Made of dna
Purpose constructed
From chaos
How we define
What designed us
Time plus adaptation
This ecological manifestation
That feels pain
That feels love
That feels loss
And so much more
Compassion in actions
One person to another
We could not be better
Because we are only
Limited children of the cosmos
Only human
For such a small span
Of time

Every day strange crafts were made
to keep the crazy kids creative
saner, active, and engaged.

There were projects with weird shades
of sand that swirled together
in green, blue, and purple hues
of mystic and psychedelic colors.

Hands, wet with a white gluey substance
made plaster plates of pure porcelain colors
which  cracked and crumbled
when tossed or dropped.

There were
popsicle stick structures,
small huts or larger houses,
and cereal box tiny toy car garages
that could be combined
to create a two story fantasy.

Each morning and night we children would take
strange pills that had a horrible taste
while finger paints played out painful portraits
of those institutionalized day.

I dulled my discontent in the delusion
Of superiority moral and intellectual
Imperative to prevent partial self-destruction
Emotional constipation from my
Former fast food occupation
I had to believe that I was a pearl
Swimming among swine on company time
I felt my mind contracting from the enacting
Of my arrogant disposition that poisonous position
Set me in constant opposition to my peers
And all those years in fear of being ignored
By those I deemed inferior to my interior being
I should have seen the truth of things
That I would have been better served listening
Than vehemently dismissing
I would have been a wiser human
Instead of a just wise enough to admit that
I’ve been wrong many times in the past
But hell I am still such a smart ***

I’m too tired
I’m too scared
I’m too busy
To freaking care
My kids need food
I’m to poor
And I’m hungry to
Thats why things
Never change
And you know
It’s true
The struggles
Never end
No time to mend
We seldom get second chances
To start again
Life keeps us on
A broken hamster wheel
Round and round until
We feel
Breathless
And
Powerless

If it bleeds it sells
We need greed to feed ourselves
To fill our shelves
With popular stuff
All sugar and fluff
No content of value
Celebrity garbage
Cause trash is more fun
And we are wallowing in it
Stewing in a sewer of pop ****
The population is loving this
Mass media content
Social networks
Comment commentators
News trolls

The digital age offers us
A great chance to change
To seek greater transparency
To counteract corrupt agencies
Requires vigilances to help us see
We have the tools to become
Truly united and finally free
If we just learned how to apply them
Properly

Pale skin scattered with black and blue
Deathly pallor engorging hues
Sorry eyes sobbing their woes
Pleading for help but hoping no one knows
Little people still unformed
Perfect shadows now forlorn
Twitching lips quivering in fear
Dry flesh flushed with tears
That had only recently disappeared
Who will hold his hand
Who will take a chance
Who will wait and understand
Why the innocent can’t dance
Fading as all things discarded, ill-used
Garbage, soft human refuse
The child unsheltered scarred, scared and abused
Who will save the children and doing so save themselves

The devil has such brittle fingers,
long,
pointed,
calloused,
and sometimes bleeding
from his heated labors
from working the earth
just to savor
a slight taste of paradise
one apple from
God’s great garden
then die
unsatisfied
cause one lite bite
is never enough.

The narrow bed
Where marigolds
Laid their bulbous head
Where little lilies
Lit up the world
Where roses posed
Like prancing posies
Only partially exposed

Now no violets grow
The earth does not know
What to show
The lilacs
Won’t bounce back
Instead take dry dirt naps

The gardener is gone
The garden’s lover has expired
Only dead earth remains
Leaving sad flowers
To wilt
Withering like
Her old creepy
Earth planted corpse

Instead of being activated
by what you hated
you got isolated,
so you wouldn't be triggered.

There were photos of
human agony on foreign streets,
bombed out buildings,
bleeding children,
and parents weeping.

Instead of getting outraged
by what you saw,
you went to your safe space,
so you wouldn't have to face
any troubling thoughts at all.

People softened the discourse,
slightly dulling the edge of the sword
they use to cut the safety cord
we call human rights.

The bad things kept happening
while you were napping comfortably.

You should have been
an exposed wire
sparking an arc of heart fires.
Instead of highlighting
that which was frightening
you went into hiding.

While those who were fighting
didn't get the option
to ignore the horror.

Busted up and ******,
tear gassed buddies bruised
while you used that excuse
of not wanting to deal with bad news
cause you might get triggered.

The world is on fire so,
melt that snowflake heart sister
and brother
we've got no time to waste
in helping each other;

Look and see these tragedies
and get motivated;
Rise up in outrage,
get ******* triggered,
and get to work son.

Cause anger gets **** done!!

It doesn't take
a kitchen knife
to butcher life
or a motorbike
to ride until I die.

Instead, I take this journey
on a broken gurney,
not a suffering soldier
but a poet older
than any bolder
active warrior.

My tourniquet tightens,
as blood loss lightens
my mental load.

This damaged road
is full of broken bones
and scattered scraps
of marble stones
that no longer fit
the foundation of
a safe home
full of love.

That's why I still roam,
searching alone,
staring at my phone
looking for answers
to a call I'll never make.

Every breath I ever take
should hold some purpose,
but the truth is
my search is fruitless.
This existence is useless;
Just another wound
that will not heal
but festers and rots
as everything I thought
held value gets lost.

In my mad mathematic trend
I subtract family and friends
from my equation,
becoming the inevitable immigrant
as I finally cross life's bitter border
to nowhere…

Where is the grief
that should write your face
leaving no trace
of joy’s expression
only rivers of red depression?

Where is the pain
that should be drawn in
till each line ages you
as it should do?

Where is the wisdom achieved
in feeling such grief
in bending to weep
from the sorrows you see?

Where is the hope and conviction born
from seeing the forlorn,
hearing the horrors that sound inhumanity
then standing to see a whole city
raging against such indignities?

Where is the righteous outrage
that you display
for a symbolic piece of cloth
that represents states that owned slaves
or the red white and blue
that you pledge your allegiance to
when it is torn, burned,
stepped on, or frayed?
Shouldn’t that anger be parlayed
into seeking justice
for those who were betrayed
for the ones who went away
to be kissed by the lips of death
and the ones who stayed
trying to make ends meet
for the human beings
who mean so much more to me?

Seriously, where is your ******* human decency?

The river runs both ways
For miles and miles
For so many day
Through years
Through loss
Through love
The cost
Is never high enough
Time racing towards the end
Clock clicking and ticking
Starting once again
Cycling back
Through circular cracks
Through birth and death
Through breathe to breath
The river turning and twisting
Foaming and swishing
Picking up speed, faster and faster
Water rising and receding
Constantly feeding
Into the Oceans
Up to the heavens
Clouds culminating in tears
Fall, softening the earth calming our fears
Back to the beginning
Though I be mortal, I still stand grinning
For the river, I run the risk
Of losing myself of ceasing to exist
Of being forgotten or not being missed
Cutting through landmasses
Picking up passengers as it passes
The river, not eternal will still live longer
Then you or me, with no thought of profit
Swelling the seas with its ***** deposit
Changing the courses of history forever
Oh sweet river, what a wonderful river

She is such a sweet pale hell
That makes me touch myself
Pleasure dangerously close to torture
Eyes lit with the softest furies
Lips that melt the ice of my soul
Whips that chain my pain to hers
I cry out “all my verses are for you.”
But she whispers “I am not yours.”

The old tree wears new leaves.
Green things gleaming and moving
dancing like a grass skirt
with the warm whims
of these soft summer winds.

I know it is not much, but I give to the people on the side of the road. If I have an apple or three, a couple of bananas, avocadoes, or anything that I can afford to pass on without making it so I do not have something to eat that day, anything in my car at the time that is not already been chewed on is fair game for my compassion, in passing it on to someone who might not have had anything to eat.
I do not feel pride for this actions, because to many times I rush by in a hurry to somewhere else, or all I have is my lunch for work. It hurts me to know that this stranger on the side of the road may not get anything to eat.
So, here are two things that rub me the wrong way. Firstly, when people think someone else will help. It is so easy just to walk, or drive by cause you think the next guy will help, but what if they don’t? What if that extra apple that you ended up tossing away anyways could have assuaged someone’s pain even for an hour or so. What if despite not being enough to fill that person’s stomach up your kindness was the light that slightly brightened an otherwise painful and lonely day? Secondly, when people say that this person is probably trying to scam you. So what if they are, their potential deceit will not lessen my overall desire to be compassionate, because what if they next person I would have helped truly needed it and I refused because I was jaded? Hell, how about if that person that you were so suspicious of was truly needy? This fog of distrust of those in need has clouded our communities, cities, states, and this country that some claim they desire to make great again.
Maybe my heart bleeds a little too much because I have been hungry, and alone before. But haven’t you ever been hungry, scared, lonely, or in pain? Why dismiss the suffering of others when you know pain? It is our capacity for creativity, and compassion that makes us great. It is the art of reading, seeing, or merely thinking that allows us to switch places and to a degree feel what other’s feels that makes us human. Please find that part of yourself and once you do, do not allow that part of yourself to be lost.

False friend
No more shall you deceive
To receive our *****’s interest

Seeder of disparate words
Court jester playing king
Folly’s fateful fool

It is destruction that you bring

A shade upon my shroud
A specter upon my soul
To stain the heavy hanging cloth
To burn the priestly robes

Purposes only bound to your own
Yet you claim a saintly cause

Give saint’s reason to blush and pause
Because liars have the best honey words
But share the worst intelligence

Your company makes me
The court of fools for trusting you
I was courting tools
Brushing my teeth
With ****** wool
Fleecing my flock unknowingly

Oh false friend
Fragrant fiend
If it was up to me
You would die slowly
Suffering shallow cuts
And bleed and bleed and bleed

I want to meet a tree
That’s in love with me
You see
I have been watching
Those beautiful leaves
Changing colors
As they please
Feeling her breath
As she gives me
The air I need to breath
I have traced
The curved in her bark
Seen the rings in her heart
Laid softly against her base
To rest or read a book
Climbed her branches
To get glances
Of new perspectives
Like poets of old
I have been serenading
Searching and waiting
To see those tree
Express their love to me
But as of lately
They ain’t saying
**** to me

I am sorry,
but do not
bother comforting me.

I am crying right now
but you will not read
this poem for many weeks
after this sadness
has passed.

These are not tears
of self-pity.
The water works
are because it hurts
to see others get hurt.

This isn’t a woe is me
small set of verses
for people to see.
This is saltwater anguish
as I watch others suffering.
This is outrage
at the outright inhuman displays
that these authoritarians play
as they spray mace
in a little child’s face
while her mother is
looking the other way.

This is a tongue held so often
that my own words
can no longer soften
this brutal reality.

This is my shame,
cause I claim
to be a good person
but I am not out on the street
with other protesters
cutting my teeth
letting cops bludgeoning me
with their nightsticks.

A hundred lines a day
To make sense of the world
Since I am unable to claim
The wisdom that I want
Stupidity is my shame
I am humbled by what I don’t
Understand
So in those hundred lines I demand
Better of myself and better for
The world I adore

When you talk remember that it is me
And I am listening
Do not guard hearts or hide words
Do not harbor false hope or fake rage
Do not be consumed by the illusions
Lost to the confusions
Be honest, I need your truths
I feed on your inspiration
The human race a light at waste
You glow so bright
But dim that light
To fade against imagined slights
You are a sparkle in a sea that glitters
Shining brighter than the moon
Blazing hotter than the sun at noon
Remember when you speak
I have questions, I am curious
I want to know you
You know I love you
You were born to be cherished
Live and will perish
So of course I love you
I wear your scars and bare your burdens
I’ll heal the your heart if you are hurting
Just speak say something, anything
Eyes averted, love denied, love shamed
Silence hurts more than violence
Losing truths to a social shell game
For we cannot see each other
If we do not speak to one another
Speak to me and I will listen
Listen and we will learn together
Learn and we will grow together
Grow and there is no limit to where we can go

Welcome to the age
of nightmare media
where you can find
the truth between
the lies they’ve
been feeding ya.
Welcome to your
internet prison
that splits your sanity
like a cracked prism.
Welcome to the age of you
cause you don’t care
what your violent leaders do.

No Saint
no sinner
no loving fool
has ever been
as cruel as you.
No saint
No sinner
no loving fool
would ever do
the things you do.

Pressure building
from the bottom up.
Cops keep shooting
our brothers up,
but when people
try to say
that their lives matter
you get *******
blame them
and not the system
that has been
intentionally broken
for as long as we
have been
our own nation.

No Saint
no sinner
no loving fool
has ever been
as cruel as you.
No saint
No sinner
no loving fool
would ever do
the things you do

You’ve been blaming,
the gays,
blaming the immigrants,
blaming the poor,
blaming innocent victims
for the problems you created.
I guess it is easier to hate
then to find the truth
and risk being hated.
So, you celebrate
how great it is
to live in a place
that keeps arming
our police with
military grade weapons
in case free citizens
give the rich grief.

No Saint
no sinner
no loving fool
has ever been
as cruel as you.
No saint
No sinner
no loving fool
would ever do
the things you do

Are we better together
or do we need to be separated
so that white privilege and power
can no longer discriminate?
I hope that you know that
I am still searching
for a better way
before America comes to
shoot me down to.

It is a game of uncertain variables. Tears cool my heated cheeks. Years of pain are distilled into a moment of anxiety.
A hug could hold a mirror to loves last affection. This may be the last good bye. One friend only makes it on holiday weekend, one friend makes it more often, one little brother, comes weekly, father remains behind.
The sounds of a strange city, holds no friends or family for me. They are hundreds of miles away. I am scared. It is the fear of the unknown, the fear of the phone call that says,

“We are sorry for your loss.”

So tonight, I will wait for work to start. My heart will race rapidly with all the anxiety my mind can muster. Even then, if and when I find slumbers silent rest, I know I will still wake with that same ache in my chest. Till, I come home again, off the road for a couple of days.

Such a fruitless endeavor,
as this dullness devours
my endless hours.

I sit seeking stale stimulus.
Being used to immediate
gratification,
of the menial mental
*******
type,
I am stumped
by my listless response to
having everything to do
but not wanting to do
anything.

No movies but one
yet to come
stir my passions.

No tv shows
that I stream
or download
get me excited.

No outside adventure
unencumbered
by the once weary winter weather
inspires me
to get up and go.

No books
even garner
random looks.

I am merely
burnt out,
but just for now.

The mirror man stood
Where I now stand
Deeply staring
Into my darkness
Eyes peering
Into the heartless
Full of wonder
And I despised
How his eyes
Told so many lies
Hopeful heart harkening
To some bright new beginning

The butcher’s blade
The blacksmith’s hammer
Tools of the trade
That I could handle
I smashed the mirror
Thus was he shattered into
A thousand jagged pieces
And in revenge
He cut and sliced me
Bled me violently
Until I needed a hundred little stitches

My inner child yells at me playfully
Hey did you go off and forget about me
I have been sitting here all week
While you were away at work
While you were brushing your teeth
Pushing those buttons or falling asleep
Why would you go out and forget about me
I reply in kind that I had not forgotten him
Life has become faster and faster than
I am able to keep up with
So there are thing I have to sacrifice
He pouts a bit and sob but why
Why I sigh because I am a man
And as a man I must do what I can
To make the world a better and safer place
For everyone in the whole human race
This means that work must be done
Before we make time for fun
Again he pouts and sob but why
Why because no matter how hard I try
There is always more that need doing
If I am going to get the promotion I must be a shoe win
What is a shoe win he says with a laughing grin
I meant to say a sure thing
But we both get distracted because it’s so nice outside

The light shines in
through the window,
brightens up
the blue smoke,

and all I know
is a good ****
makes
me feel
less broke.

Spent six days
just staring
at nothing,
don't feel like moving
cause I'm despairing,
paring my pain
with some
***** and a joint.

I feel like ****
and smell
just like
I took a bath in it.

My specter like
reflection
is closer to perfection
then my
real life complexion,

And the point that
I'm making
is non-existent
just like my hope
for the next day is.

They split
the splendor,
hurt mother nature,
grabbed and slaughtered
her bright red, and green
bedded daughter.

They cut down
the tall brown,
broke with burning blasts
the bulging bottom
of the beige mountains
that were snowcapped.

They painted in plain mortality,
stained that verdant quality
of waving grasslands
that expands
before the curious swarm
of a young humanity.

They cracked the crust
beneath us
causing the gas
to come rushing up
and poison us.

So, now we weep
salty sea tears
tainted by oil spills
and dead otter bodies.

Till, at last
when all those
tragedies have passed
when stillness reigns
in our place
we are disgraced
and displaced
by our self-inflicted
genocide.

It has been years in the desert
Heat stroking
My member
No oasis in sight
No hope for the day
So I stall in the night
Lust no longer giving pleasure
Merely an action
To subdue
My baser emotions
So I go through the motions
Hands on desire
Wiping the sticky rag clean
To cleanse myself
Of the so called obscene

The desert is barren
Lacking any love
The watery red rose
The lips once opened and now closed
Sometimes I miss those lush green fields
Other times I am grateful not to feel

But the desert is always a desert
And sooner or later
Its’ dry heat will ****
All that I have left to feel

She paints for peace
Not world wide
But something inside
Swirls the brushes
Smiles and cusses
As the paint touches the canvass
As her pain is transformed
Or at least temporarily muted

You need the poetry
Of a pre-painted reality
To infected you with the disease
Called empathy
To get sick with humanity
Knowing there is no cure
And only the vaccine
Of apathy and greed
Could set you free
from that well released
Read as you please
Better believe what you see
Make us better human beings
Not nearly contagious enough
Outbreak of real love

Is it my fault
That you cannot
Follow me into
The darkest rooms

Failing to see
The click clacking
Of death tracking
Innocence

Failing to feel
Parallels of pain
Emotions you can’t name

Am I to blame
Because I softened my words
To be heard
Whispered
Instead of yelling
Smiled and joked
Instead of crying

So you kept lying
To yourself
Measuring value
As an integer of wealth
Check marked
Your vacant heart
Filling infinity
With nothing

Is it my fault
Because
I did not argue harder
For the sane way
Did not strain
Enough to say
Please stay
With me
And our shared humanity

Now your boots
Sound of conformity
A terrible drum
Poking me
And I can see
Where this beat
Leads
But you will not
Believe me

So when you reach for
The cold and deadly knife
Stuck in the heart of humanity
To pull it out
And bleed out
When you finally see and agree
Will you blame or forget me

In my younger days
there was pain
and a rage
that would raze
the world away;

A deep injection
of sorrow infections,
coupled with
disappointment,

and when I erupted
I kept almost all
of my volcanic outbursts
to the form of exercise
or other means of
self-hurt,

because I did not
want to cause
anyone
the same
sickness
of anguish
that I suffered.

Whether it was
waking in tears,
punching solid objects,
or working out
to the point of
exhaustion,
purging my stable
of demons,
what a
painful exorcism.

Now,
I am healthier,
and I only engage in
a less brutal regimen
in comparison
to deal with my issues.

1.
Heavenly gates of pearly pleasure
Bountiful resources
Plenty of love
A perfect place
No more pain
A pleasant fantasy
But it’s a child’s game

2.
It used to be the clock on the counter
That counted down
What a kicker
That broken ticker
The cuckoo bird
With a busted beak
Shattered when I was drunk
And it met my feet

They paired us
In Paris

Dreamed up
Things to scare us

But the poets
Left for France
Because they could
Afford it

If I could have been
Gone with them
They would not have
To expatriate me

No need to separate me
From this American family
Of consumerism and greed

I would have preferred
To be in love in Paris

I want to be swollen
with sweet word growing,
impregnated with that which
is made for taking darkness
and transmuting it into
a light of love for all to
fall comfortably into.

I want to take this language,
work and refine those fine
lyrical lines that make minds
turn towards acting kind.

But I have lost the eloquence
that was once my treasured gift,
and all that falls from my lips,
is red and brown drips of ****.
I’ve gone from child optimist
to exhausted adult cynic.

I have lost the fairies and dragons,
unicorns, and gentle care bears
and now dim dreams live there.

Vague impression of once vibrant
brush strokes, and dancing limbs
have giving in to warring men’s
disturbing intentions.
Nightmare too horrible to mention
have become my waking certainty.

But what is really bothering me,
is that it has become much easier
to accept this sick distorted reality.

The canvass of life has become
the splatter art of a billion broken hearts,
and I have mastered the skill
of numbing what I used to feel
in favor of current forms of
self-amusement.

For love we seek to unwrite the laws of nature
To wash our hands of old wisdom
To fight through to innovative truths
Discover new perspectives
Challenge the old ways
Decimate dogmas
Devour godly decrees
To set our world free
From the tyranny
Of the stagnant mind

And all the king’s men
Were a cursedly rotten bunch
Took the corrupt out to lunch
While their allies launched
Bombs that eviscerated
The hearts and bodies
Of the foreigners and natives

Look the city is burning.
Can you see it?
This will not be
super flashy
or rise up like a phoenix.

Sleepless eyes
are set in red
aching dry
from crying
for the dead;

While shaking fist
chant and resist
the oppressiveness
that lit this ****
to begin with.

Violence
erupts,
but it was expected,
from seeing the shame
of those who claim
they should be respected
whilst acting like thugs.

It is an irony
that they don’t seem to see
begging for relief
from a similar anxiety
which they imposed
on those
who are just asking for
the grace of human decency.

The city settles
the chaos will resume shortly
and I watch brave warriors
struggle to catch
their tear gassed breathes.

Preacher
give me
a practical
parable,
a pleasant metaphor
for
something deep
and meaningful.

Preacher
pass on
some wild
wisdom
that I was
sadly lacking,
please go on
unpacking
with unpracticed ease
whatever lie
you please
wrapped up
in your
bibleleese
bubbling
*******.

I know you’re
very content
with it.

So, preach away,
but do not
expect me
to swallow it.

The slippery seeds
of discontent
are spent
on the soft
and fertile soil
of my fractured soul.

Anger fuels
a field of fury
and I push myself
beyond the simple confines
of physical comfort
and a sane mine.

I plant my feet
and feel the soft earth
part and slowly swallow
the portions of me
that are hopelessly hollow.

The rage against
human violence
and the impoverishment
of humanity,
the devastation
of the sharp blades
of heartbreak
from rejection
form a sword
of self-hate
that I use to
cut away
any weeds
that might impede
my growing season.
The pliable dirt,
soft brown earth
allows me to sink in
for the final planting.

All my seeds drop
rage,
pain,
fear,
doubt.

Then in the spring
something unforeseen
comes blooming.

Instead of a sick
and disgusting human thing
full of deformities,
a new creature emerges
for the harvesting.
A long stalk
of self-improvement,
a truly creative,
and compassionate being
is freed,
and I harvest him.
He nourishes me
as I strive to be
the man
I always wanted to be.

Hair greying sharp bark saying he’s in pain
Milky eyes hardly have any sight left
I lift him up the stairs and back into the house
My hand slips just a bit rubbing a sore spot
A gentle nip reminds me not to touch it
Then comes the apologetic course tongue lick

Soft soothing words whisper a token of my spoken
And unbroken affection
The end is near and I can hear the congestion
Breathing more labored so I pet him gently
Making sure that he can hear and see me
Comforting him until he finds oblivion

Sometimes it’s not in the reading
But the in the hearing and seeing
That we find the beauty of poetry
Sometimes we forget their power
The world of words loses its’ way
Loses its’ sway to say what it must say
But when a new voice is given
The power resurfaces
When we hear the subtle tremors
The violent vibrations
The elevation of poetry is remembered
Like a long lost love
Finding old passions re-inflamed
The poetry is restored to its’ golden glory again

Frequently,
I race across the words
reading too rapidly,
missing the depths
of descriptive sounds,
and failing to engage
the full immersive array
of language the writer displays
because I wish to portray
the fiction of a deep person
who reads intelligently.

We are all sycophantic suitors of death
Chasing that wasting rot and decay
In a roundabout sick sort of way
Suckling the toxic *** of excitement
Rushes and blushes demure and debasement
Faster and faster till haste becomes more than mere waste
Diligent drug users ******* up smoke laced with nicotine
Embracing and tasting various brands of caffeine
Red meat and carbs pretty woman and fast cars
Working to **** much and playing twice as hard
Climbing mountains, hunting new types of prey
Starting fights riding wild and rough waves
Too much sun or not enough UV rays
Waking up early and going to bed late
Silence and stillness is not the enemy of the state
But we are all just chasing the only thing that could be called fate
We all die to **** young but I’d like to check out late